Dawn of the Blood
by LordDerrick
Summary: What would happen when a stagnate magical world is suddenly thrust into an evolutionary cycle by the very power that allows it to exist? Humans adapt and evolve. Someone always emerges at the top. Blood wins wars. Destruction wins kingdoms. Godlike!Harry/Multi, AU from Year Four.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. The first several paragraphs of Chapter One are quoted from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ by J.K. Rowling.**

No greater tool exists on earth than the human mind. Humans unconsciously carry out many routine tasks. Breathing, moving, and even eating, to some degree, comes from a series of commands wired into our brains. Experience can do the same. Traumatic or repetitive events can forge new paths in the brain's ability to comprehend and dissect information. Muscle memory can make completing routine tasks quicker and easier.

Humans, because of their great capacity to learn, often overlearn. They become resistant to new ideas. They draw comfort from the familiarity of knowledge. That knowledge gives them power. They become complacent in their power and do little grow it. There are exceptions. These exceptions explore themselves and the universe at large. They understand that the rules of reality represent limitations meant to be broken.

Wizards never learned to adapt in such a manner. For centuries, the magical world has churned along in a stagnant ocean, circling again and again the only world they know. They refuse to innovate, refuse to understand the simplest truth of all. Humanity is only a small fraction of the universe. Only through reason and discovery can they become more.

Centuries before the advent of postmodern wizarding society, before the world knew of names like Dumbledore and Flamel, the understanding of magic grew exponentially. Three titans of magic fought one another for decades, desperately trying to learn secrets that would give them advantages. One of the three saw the complacency that would eventually lead to stagnation. He looked to the future. In a desperate attempt to save humankind from its inevitable downfall, he broke his life energy and magic. As he died, he imbued it into four vessels – four apprentices he had trained to the be the strongest of their people.

**Chapter One**

_"Everything changed on the day the Dark Lord finally died. We thought we understood magic. We thought we knew our place in the world. We would soon find how gravely mistaken we were."_

_-Minerva McGonagall_

"You have been taught how to duel. Harry Potter?" said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness.

At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago... All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, "Expelliarmus"… and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned... the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse - and Voldemort was right - his mother was not here to die for him this time... He was quite unprotected...

"We bow to each other. Harry," said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties must be observed... Dumbledore would like you to show manners... Bow to death, Harry..."

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort's lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him... he was not going to give him that satisfaction...

"I said, bow," Voldemort said, raising his wand – and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.

"Very good," said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. "And now you face me, like a man... straight-backed and proud, the way your father died...

"And now - we duel."

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was... White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life – and then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.

"A little break," said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, "a little pause... That hurt, didn't it. Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

Harry didn't answer. He was going to die like Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so... he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it... but he wasn't going to play along. He wasn't going to obey Voldemort... he wasn't going to beg...

"I asked you whether you want me to do that again," said Voldemort softly. "Answer me! Imperio!"

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought... Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming... just answer no... say no... just answer no...

I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his head, I won't answer...

Just answer no...

I won't do it, I won't say it...

Just answer no...

"I WON'T!"

And these words burst from Harry's mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing...

"You won't?" said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. "You won't say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die... Perhaps another little dose of pain?"

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him.

"We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry," said Voldemort's soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. "You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry?

"Come out, Harry... come out and play, then... it will be quick... it might even be painless... I would not know... I have never died…"

Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There was no hope ... no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet... he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible... He reached deep within himself, seeking the center of the resolve that boiled within him now.

And he found something.

Time slowed, but instead of seeing his life flash before his eyes in an adrenaline driven haze, Harry felt his mind beginning to unfold, beginning to change, beginning to embrace a new concept. He reasoned. The obstacle to his future neared. Voldemort possessed the ability to end him now, to stop him from existing. Yet, he could do nothing. A fourth-year wizarding teenager did not possess the power…

Wait.

That was it.

Hadn't he regrown his hair and apparated onto the roof a school when he was only a boy? He needed no wand for those feats of magic; yet, they had been beyond his current curriculum at high school. Both instances defied reason. And with that thought, like so many humans had done since _Australopithecus afarensis _had learned to walk upright, Harry adapted.

He possessed power. Magic, with all its rules and requirements, still defied the logic he had been taught growing up in the muggle world. It worked against the very laws of physics, all but dismantling concepts such as gravity and thermodynamics. But it worked. It worked when the laws of the world said it should not. Surely, magic did not just respond when he made certain gestures and words. He knew wandless magic existed. So did nonverbal magic.

Then Harry realized something so fundamental to his being that he had never considered it until now. His magic came from him. He had the ability to control it and wield it as he saw fit. When he used spells, his magic responded to his desires, not to the words. The words only helped him focus his will. He could survive this if he only willed it.

Harry grabbed hold of that thought, refusing to let go of his only hope. He used that hope to reach further within himself than he had dared to look. There, at the center of all his thoughts, at the basic of the logic that allowed him to reason, rested a core of power. It was his existence. His life. His weapon.

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone, Harry stood up, gripped his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself over the headstone. With a loud cry, he forced his magic down his arm and into his wand. His movements quickened, but around him, nothing moved. He had minutes, hours. The world crawled by him, oblivious to the storm of power that he called forth.

Energy flooded his wand. The brittle tool resisted the overwhelming influx of magical energy. Fissures spread along the thin length of holly. Red light glowed from within the cracks, threatening to destroy his wand. The Boy-who-lived, though, did not relent. In all his miraculous survivals of certain death, one characteristic remained constant in ever situation. He never gave up. Like so many times before, he _pushed._

The world sped back up. His wand shattered into thousands of tiny, flaming pieces. A beam of unaltered magic exploded from the wreckage of his focus. Voldemort could not react in time. The magic struck the reborn dark lord fully in the chest. Voldemort could not even muster a scream before Harry's magic vaporized every trace of his existence, burning far beyond the physical and into the soul that gave meaning to his life. The Dark Lord Voldemort ceased to exist. The last heir of Salazar Slytherin had been conquered.

His magic spread in a shockwave from where Voldemort once stood, the intensity barely diminished by its contact with the dark lord. Some of the deatheaters watching managed to escape, but many shared the fate of their master. Harry's power continued unabetted, a force of nature. It tore at the ground, sending dirt, gravestones, and vegetation flying through the air. It collided with trees and snapped the thick trunks. Even the air above the devastation sizzled, primed with a power more potent than any other on earth.

Instinctually, Harry knew what he wielded. Every living being in the vicinity knew. Creation. The very power that formed the cosmos. The link that bound all matter together. The energy of life, death, and time. He wielded the fire of the gods, the power Prometheus once gifted to man.

Harry fell to his hands and knees. His limbs barely supported him as they trembled. A profound sense of exhaustion swept over him. His right arm, his wand arm, ached worse than when the bludger broke most the bones in his arm two years earlier. His hand felt wet. He turned his head to look at the splinters of wood embed in his flesh, each resulting in trickles of blood that moistened his skin. Moving his head made him dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over him. He retched and choked as his body expelled yellow and black bile from his stomach. His arms gave out, and he tumbled over on his side.

Fatigue threatened to take him into unconsciousness. He fought it. He concentrated on the sensations his mind struggled to process. The feeling of cold sweat on his face. The chilly night breeze. The burning in his hand. The ache in his arm. He couldn't fall asleep. He had to get home. No one would find him in the graveyard. He had to tell them of Cedric… of the deatheaters… of Voldemort.

_The cup, _he thought. The cup could get him home. He tried to look around, but his head refused to respond like it should. He focused on his mangled hand. He made what was left of his fingers extend. Agony blinded him, but he did not have the energy to cry out. With the last of his strength, he whispered, "_Accio_ cup." His magic surged once more, far slower than it had earlier, but the results were the same. He saw the gold glint of the Triwizard Cup sailing through the air. When the metal touched his hand, he gave in to the fatigue just as the portkey whisked him away from the destroyed graveyard.

* * *

The Ministry of Magic ruled wizarding Britain with laws tinged by manipulation and corruption. Ministry employees enacted the laws passed by the Wizengamot. The inherent prejudice of many of the laws bothered many of the ministry employees, but they did not speak out. They did not refuse or take a stand. They simply followed the orders of their department or office heads. The heads followed the will of the Wizengamot. The would-be dissenters tried to justify their complicity by arguing they were just following orders. For some, it eased their consciences, but most still felt as though they betrayed some intangible moral rule. Still, they were only cogs in a machine. None could accuse them of direct evil.

A very small few realized that their complicity in the abuse of non-human magicals and muggleborns damned them to the fiery suffering of whatever afterlife the Fates chose to inflict upon them. These small few worked to undermine the more extreme measures enacted by the Wizengamot. From within the ministry, they strove to give muggleborns, at the very least, a chance at a productive life in the wizarding world. They worked tirelessly to preserve the many treaties that kept the various magical factions around the world at peace with Great Britain. They kept arrogant wizards and witches from antagonizing beings far more ancient that humanity.

These few were the Unspeakables, a mysterious sect of wizards and witches that even the Wizengamot had no authority over. They were charged with preserving wizarding Britain. Since King John of England signed the Magia Liberum in 1215, forever separating the ties the British wizarding world had with the muggle world, the Unspeakables had worked behind the scenes to protect wizardkind. They deposed dark lords, assassinated power-hungry politicians, and controlled the birth of powerful mages. They maintained the balance. However, no living Unspeakable had ever had the opportunity to carry out their corps' most important mission: to herald the Return.

At the center of the Department of Mysteries, deep below the lowest official floor of the Ministry's underground, there existed a stone room. Only a single, narrow staircase led to the room. Runes covered the floor, ceiling, and walls of the room. No door allowed access. Only a wizard or witch with the proper knowledge could create an opening in the heavily warded room. Any who tried and failed would die. An Unspeakable guarded the staircase at all times. No one passed the Unspeakable.

The room contained a long box. Like the room, the box was made of stone and had no visible openings. Runes also adorned the six sides of the box. Both the runes on the walls and the runes on the box glowed a faint blue. The runes created a powerful ward matrix designed to contain the contents of the stone box.

When Harry Potter unleashed his magic in Little Hangleton, 50 miles south of London, he caused the first change the room had underwent in more than a thousand years. Because of many generations of marriages and births, Harry had inherited the residual power of three families. When Voldemort's existence ceased at his hand, he conquered the last of a fourth family, allowing him the prize of that line's power and causing a convergence of magic. Because of this convergence, the box changed. The blue glow faded, and a bright red light sizzled in the etched rune lines. The stone box vibrated against the floor with enough intensity to send cracks across its surfaces. The cracks widened and stretched. Pieces of the box began to fall from it, one by one, until the entire container had fallen apart.

Tendrils of green magic burst from within the box, shattering the last bits of stone that kept it caged. The magic met the ward matrix. Bolts of green lightning attacked the ward matrix, creating a nexus of primordial energy. At first, it seemed as though the wards would win. The matrix refused to budge against the onslaught. But slowly, the red glow within the runes began to change. Green spread from the remains of the box into the red rune lines. The ward matrix flickered and dimmed while the green magic continued its onslaught. The green magic pulsed once and flooded the room. The wards failed, and the stone walls cracked. Lightning flashed in every direction, and bang of thunder sounded so loudly that it shook the earth that hid the secret room.

Unspeakables ran down the narrow staircase, their training and experience ensuring that they did not fall. Seven Unspeakables, four wizards and three witches, focused their magic and thrust out their wands. They uttered no words, but the magic in the room responded anyway. As one, they redirected the flows of power raging within the room and sent the wild magic coursing through the walls and into the earth around it. They continued to channel the energy, dispensing it into the unyielding earth.

The nexus faded. A sudden calm fell over the stone room. The runes did not reactivate. All but one of the Unspeakables lowered their wands. The remaining Unspeakable muttered something under his breath. What remained of the stone wall in front of them opened. Harry Potter lay unconscious in the middle of the room amidst the remains of the box. In his mangled right hand, he held a golden cup. In his left hand, he held a long, white staff. A green stone adorning the top of the staff steadily pulsed, emitting a soft glow.

None of the Unspeakables spoke for a long moment. They had been trained for this moment. Everything rested on how the next few hours went. As a group, they stepped into the stone room and formed a circle around Harry. One of the Unspeakables – a blonde-haired, blue-eyed witch – knelt and checked his pulse.

"It's Harry bloody Potter," she said, her voice a shaky whisper.

One of the other Unspeakables – a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed wizard – gave her a hard look. "It doesn't matter," he said in a deep, commanding voice. "You know what must happen. You confirmed his existence."

The witch nodded, closed her eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. She never dreamed that she would be in this position. Sure, they all rotated the different team positions. It was only the luck of the draw that she had been assigned to point that night. This had never happened. For over a thousand years, the Chamber of the Blood had remained sealed.

She opened her eyes. There was no sense in delaying. Each second lost was another second that did not go to preparing for the morning. "Start the recording," she said to the tall wizard. He waved his wand, and she sensed a subtle change in the air. She shrugged her robes from her body and undressed until she stood only in a high-cut, purple thong. "At 2335 on the 24th day of June, 1995, I, Lea Elisabeth Bechum, sworn protector of the Blood, affirm the existence of a living True Wizard in possession of the Staff Eternal. The ritual of the Blood has begun." She pulled a dagger from within her robes. "I fulfill my oath to the Blood and offer my life to fuel its return." Without hesitation, she plunged the dagger into her right breast. She fell to her knees. Blood gushed from the wound in her chest and fell into the runes that were etched into the stone. "_Ave Imperator_," she whispered. With the last of her strength, she pulled the dagger from her chest and fell forward as blood pooled around her.

As she fell, all but one of the other Unspeakables – a slender, green-eyed, brown-haired witch named Katie – pulled daggers from their robes and mimicked her actions. Katie backed up away from the circle and watched as the blood pooled around her. She was careful not to let any of it touch her. She raised her wand and began to cast. She chanted words of a long dead language. The words meant very little, but the cadence of her voice danced in enchanting sentences and phrases. Magic stirred around her. The blood of the Unspeakables flowed and mixed. Slowly, it crept towards the Boy-Who-Lived.

The blood touched Harry's fingers. It oozed and spread, crawling over his hand and up his arm. It washed over him, seeping under his clothes and into his ears and nose. Katie chanted faster. Static electricity sizzled in the room, a side effect of the magical buildup. Soon, the blood completely covered Harry. Katie pointed her wand at the Boy-Who-Lived and screamed, "By flame, be reborn! _Vitae Ignis!_"

Living fire emerged from the tip of her wand. Fiery serpents and dragons roared and stretched towards the ceiling. She concentrated and pulled the living fire under her control. It reared against her, but her will was absolute. She served the Blood. No magic was beyond her. The _fiendfyre_ broken against her will. Flames fell in upon themselves, shrinking in size and racing towards Harry Potter. The fire touched the blood and consumed the Boy-Who-Lived.

"_Ave Imperator_," Katie whispered.

**A/N: Please review. I have not written a Harry Potter fan fiction in a very long time. I would like to know your thoughts. Even a simple "good" or "bad" would be most appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Harry Potter Universe.**

**A/N: This chapter contains some intense moments. You have been warned.**

**Chapter Two**

"_Merlin was not a kind man. The mundane stories of Merlin paint him as a nice old man. A grandfather figure that raised Arthur to be a great knight and king. The real Merlin never so much as saw a kindness. The Others feared him for a reason. He was ruthless and cruel. And powerful. Only a few could stand against him, even when he stood alone. Those that did rarely lived. When he killed them, he would send pieces of their corpses to the four corners of Briton. We swear by his name for a reason. Merlin was not a benevolent figure. He was a demonic god that plagued the enemies of mankind and Briton alike."_

_-Cuthbert Binns, _A Brief History of Wars and Rebellions

When Harry regained consciousness, he expected pain. He remembered the graveyard and the ensuing destruction. He remembered summoning the cup. His hand had been all but blown off. He should be hurting. Yet, he only felt the comforts of a warm blanket and a soft mattress. He opened his eyes.

To his surprise, he was not back at Hogwarts. The room looked nothing like the Hospital Wing. Directly above where he lay, he saw nothing but grey metal. He was in some sort of bunk bed. It was plain and unadorned. Both the sheet and blanket that covered him were plain white. His right arm was in a sling that held it tight to his chest. A thick, white bandage covered his hand. He couldn't feel it. Obviously, whoever wrapped it had applied a numbing agent. An IV drip was attached to his left arm. He wore nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

The room was just as plain as the bunk bed. No adornments hung on the four white walls. Fluorescent light lit the room. Muggle technology. He wasn't in a magical prison. There was a door on either side of the bunk bed. One was open, showing the small bathroom behind it. The other door was closed. Probably locked.

He was alone and lost. He didn't know where he was or even who had taken him there, but he did know that it wasn't Hogwarts. The cup shouldn't have taken him to the graveyard when he first used it. He couldn't fathom where the portkey had taken him a second time. Logic dictated that it should have taken him back to Hogwarts, but there wasn't anything logical about what was going. He had broken the laws of magic. He had murdered dozens of people with an unknown power. For all he knew, the room could be a ministry holding cell.

Harry pushed the blankets off and sat up, hanging his legs off the side of the bed. His head spun. His vision flickered with spots. He took a deep breath, grabbed the top bunk with his free hand, and pulled himself to his feet. A wave of nausea hit him, almost dropping him to his knees. He wanted to lie down on the bed and curl into a fetal position. But he couldn't. He had to get out of here. Once they trapped him, they wouldn't let him go.

Before he found out he was a wizard, he had been a prisoner in the Dursleys' home. The cupboard under the stairs had been a cage. He could still remember the many nights he spent in almost complete darkness, clinging to his bed and staring at the sliver of light that creeped through the crack under the door. He could remember the spiders and other insects tickling his skin. He could remember their bites.

Harry shook his head, fighting back against the nausea and dizziness. He had to focus. He wasn't in the cupboard, and he wasn't going to stay in this room.

He scanned the room. There was nothing he could use as a weapon. He didn't have anything small enough to pick the lock either. He took a few careful, hesitant steps towards the door. He didn't fall, and his legs only barely shook. _OK,_ he thought, _that will have to do._

He reached the closed door and tested the knob. It didn't turn, but it felt barely secure. It was just a normal door. He could probably break it if he tried hard enough, but it would take a lot of strength. Strength he didn't have. Every muscle in his body responded sluggishly. He would have to make several attempts to finally get the door free. By then, he was sure that his captors would be on him. For all he knew, they could be watching him at that moment. He needed to hurry, and that left only one option. Magic.

The fight in the graveyard proved that wizards and witches barely understood the capabilities of magic. He had used raw magic. He had forced it out of his body. Then, he had summoned the cup to him without the aid of a focus. If he did it once, he could do it again. The power was _his. _He could do with it what he pleased.

Harry held out his uninjured left hand and pointed his palm at the door. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, searching for the magic he knew resided within him. He remembered the feeling of his wand responding to him the first time he held it. He remembered the rush of energy… the feeling of elation… the power that moved within him. He remembered the graveyard… the desperation he felt… the confidence in his abilities. He reached within himself, unconsciously extending is uninjured hand even further. Power responded.

A wave of euphoria passed through him, and his mind cleared. The dizziness and nausea disappeared as if he had not felt them in the first place. The walls of his room no longer seemed to trap him. His pain was gone. He could feel his bandaged hand. He was light and free. He was a being of magic, a wielder of chaos and creation. With a smile on his face, Harry gathered the power and forced it down his uninjured arm.

Displaced air cracked as it was suddenly forced aside for something materializing in Harry's outstretched hand. Muscle memory he should not have made his fingers curl around the shaft of a white wood staff. A bright light pulsed once from the green gem at the top of the staff, making Harry blink. He shook his head and looked at the staff in confusion.

"That's not what I had in mind," he said aloud.

He pulled the staff closer. The white wood was smooth. It had clearly been sanded, though it was not polished. He could see the lines of the individual grains. They fit together perfectly, a single instrument cut from something both ancient and willing. He reached out with his senses and felt the living energy within the staff. He also felt the magical energy that kept the wood alive despite it no longer having roots or leaves. The two energies swam around one another, moving in harmony, content with fulfilling their roles. The staff hummed with magic.

"It's alive," Harry whispered.

The green gem at the top glowed with a steady, soft, green light, not responding one way another.

_I'm going crazy_, he thought. That was the only explanation. The fight in the graveyard had simply taxed him too much. Staffs were not alive. He pushed the thought aside. He could deal with his insanity later. At the moment, he was still stuck in the unfamiliar room. And somehow, he had just gained the tool that would set him free. The staff was magical. If the green glow and hum of magic coming from the staff were any indication, then he could use it. He felt it responding to him just like his wand once did. It was a focus.

Harry pointed the staff towards the door. "_Alohomora,_" he whispered.

The lock shattered. The knob, tumbler, and lock broke in pieces and exploded from the door, leaving a gaping hood in the wood door. The frame had also been split where the locked had ripped free of it.

Harry looked from the door to the staff. That had never happened with his wand. _Better be careful_, he thought to himself. The staff clearly packed a bigger punch than his wand.

Harry pulled the sling from around his shoulder. He flexed his arm and bandaged hand. He had some movement in his hand. The bandages prevented full movement. It would have to be enough. Gently, he pushed the now broken door open a few inches. It didn't make a sound, but Harry doubted anyone around missed hearing the lock exploding from the door and its frame. They would be coming for him. He craned his neck to peak out of the opening. It was a long hallway that looked like it belonged in a military barracks. Where the hell was he?

Once he was sure he was clear, he pushed the door the rest of the way open and slipped into the hallway. He moved quickly, the fatigue and soreness having been washed away by the surge of magic given off by the staff. He heard the door close behind him. It closed hard. As if it had been pushed. Harry spun, unleashing a wave of magic purely on instinct.

A slender brunette witch with wide green eyes looked at him. Her attractive face remained motionless, a professional composure he had only seen on the Queen's Guard in front of Buckingham Palace. She did not move. Her arms stayed at her side, not even holding her wand. She must have been on the other side of the door when he opened it. She wore plain, grey robes that were cut for flexibility, but she did not appear to have on any armor. Clearly, she was not dressed for combat. Regret flashed briefly through Harry's mind. She could have attacked him easily at any point after he opened the door. She had done nothing to him, but he had attacked her.

It was too late to stop the wave of magic from sailing towards her. It wasn't a spell, just pure concussive force. It had come naturally to him, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. The magic wasn't as strong as what he had used in the graveyard, but it felt the same. Creation. The energy that connected all things. It was also the energy that destroyed all things. And it was speeding towards an innocent, defenseless witch.

"Get down!" he yelled just as the wave should have overcome her.

The witch launched herself forward and curled her body into a somersault that took her over the wave of magic. It passed under her without so much as bristling her robes and slammed into the wall by where she had stood. The concussive blast dug into wood and plaster, leaving a deep gouge behind. The witch landed in a crouch with her wand in her hand and held out to the side, readying to swing it forward.

The feeling of regret left him in an instant. She might not have attacked him before, but she was certainly prepared to do so now. Going once again on instinct, he pounded the base of the staff on the ground. The floor buckled in response and rippled towards her. She rolled forward and met the ripple as it hit. She used its momentum to launch into the air again. She slashed with her wand and the air around her compressed and wrapped around her in a cyclone, keeping her suspended above the ground. She thrust her wand forward, and gusts of air peeled off of the cyclone and blew towards Harry.

The staff might have helped Harry pull off a few new tricks, but he did not have the same combat reflexes the woman possessed. He tried to move, but he had barely even twitched before the cyclone wrapped around him and pinned his arms at his side. Another gust ripped the staff from his hand. The grey-robed witch flicked her wand and the air tightened around him and slammed him hard on his back, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped, trying to gulp in what he had lost as his back, neck, and shoulder screamed in protest. He tried to roll away or curl up, but the magical air held him in place as firmly as any chains.

To his surprise, the witch did not press her advantage. Instead, she dismissed the cyclone that kept her aloft, ran forward, dropped her wand, and kneeled beside him. She placed both hands on her extended knee and bowed her head. "_Imperator,_" she said, her voice rich and full, despite being tinged with shame. "Forgive me for attacking you. I acted on instinct. My life belongs to the Blood."

Harry's head spun again from a combination of being thrown to the ground and losing the power of his staff. The wind faded from around him after the witch dropped her wand. He scrambled away as best he could. He looked around for the staff, but it was several feet away. He reached out his hand, thinking of the connection he had felt with it when it first appeared. It jumped into his outstretched hand.

The strength and energy returned to him. He scrambled to his feet and brought the staff to bear. The stone glowed green. Rage swelled inside him. She had beaten and bound him. Made him her prisoner. Like the Drusleys. Like Dumbledore. Like Voldermort. His arms shook from the pressure of the magic that responded to his emotions. He could kill her. He could bring down fire and lightning from the heavens and wipe her presence from the world. It would be so simple. So quick.

Harry pushed the rage aside. That wasn't him. He didn't just kill people. That got him nowhere. He needed information. Besides, she had given up, and she had done so while he was pinned to the ground, defenseless. Something was off. Only an idiot would ignore his situation.

"Why did you give up?" Harry asked. He remained wary, expecting a trick, though he had no idea why she would need a trick. She had thoroughly beaten him with a few wind spells.

The witch did not look up. In a voice so full of remorse that it made Harry frown deeply, she said, "I serve my purpose. My life is forfeit." She tilted her head to the side and moved her hair, baring her neck. "It is yours to take, _Imperator_."

A thrill rose up in Harry. His skin prickled as the hairs on his arms stood. He wanted her blood. He could see the vein in her neck throbbing, beckoning for him to rip it open and release the warm liquid that kept her alive. He smiled and took a step forward.

To her credit, the witch did not so much as flinch. Harry, however, froze. What was wrong with him? Where were these desires coming from? He didn't treat people this way. He didn't usually think so violently. He definitely didn't act on such violent thoughts. He tried to push the thoughts to the back of his mind, but the harder he pushed, the least he wanted to succeed. He felt strong and powerful. His grip tightened on the staff. Another reassuring wave of power swept over him, further hiding the worries from his conscious mind.

And why shouldn't he want power? Voldemort was dead. So was Cedric. As far as he knew, there were no witnesses in the graveyard that would take his side. The ones who had escaped the destruction of his wild magic likely had no desire to back up any claims of innocence he could make. Four years at Hogwarts had constantly reminded him of a single, resounding truth about the wizarding public: they were fickle. They believed whatever story fit their perception of what happened. It was rare that they changed their minds once they made it up. Like so many times in the past, be it at Hogwarts or with the Dursleys, Harry would take the blame.

He wasn't going down easy.

"Stand up," he said to the witch, his voice much deeper than he remembered. He had not noticed earlier. He felt different too. Not just more powerful. He felt bigger. For the first time, he noticed that he was taller than the woman. Harry was rarely taller than anyone. He looked down at his body. In his confused haze, he had not noticed the changes. What had once been the skinny legs, arms, and torso of a small boy who grew up in a state of constant malnourishment was now the lean, muscular form of a man in his early twenties. His chest and abs were hard and sculpted. His arms and legs were long and tight with lean muscle.

The grey-robed witch stood and looked up to him, though her eyes did not quite meet his own. They looked slightly lower, as if in deference. "What happened to me?" he asked.

"You underwent the Ritual of the Blood. Your servants gave their life and magic so that you may live strong," she replied quickly.

"What?" he asked, unsure of what she was saying. He hadn't been in any ritual. What was she talking about? But even as he questioned her, something rang true in her words. He felt a familiar magic coming from her. Almost as if he knew her.

"_Imperator_, are you alright?" the witch asked. This time she looked directly at him, concern on her face.

"Who are you?" he asked, trying hard to place the magic he sensed.

"I am Katie, your bonded servant, my lord. I am yours to do with as you please," she replied sincerely.

Harry frowned. "You're going to have to explain things a little further," he said. "I don't know where I am, how I got here, or who you are. I definitely do not have a bonded servant." Still, her magic felt so familiar. It called to him. He took another step closer to her. Only a few feet separated them now. If he reached out, he could almost touch her.

_Touch her_, he thought. Something warm blossomed in him at the thought of touching her. A desire. Yes, he needed to touch her. He took another step closer. And another. His eyes never leaving her beautiful face and her green eyes. He dropped the staff, no longer needing it for support. It faded, returning from whence it came.

Katie didn't move away. She turned so that she faced him fully, as if she wanted him to touch her. That just encouraged Harry. He closed the distance between them with two short steps. His hands went to her shoulders. She didn't resist as he pinned her against the wall. He was so much bigger than her. Her tiny, slender frame felt so delicate in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to touch every part of her.

His lips found hers in a passionate kiss. He had no experience, but Katie responded with both vigor and skill. She guided him in the kiss. It felt wrong. He should be the one guiding. He shoved her back into the wall again, causing her to gasp in surprise. Then he moved his hands to the top of her form-fitting robes. He pulled hard, splitting them down the center, revealing creamy flesh and a white bra. His hands moved roughly inside the robes, running over her stomach, chest, and bra-clad breasts. It still wasn't enough. He leaned forward and kissed her again. She responded with just as much fervor as before. Harry growled and grabbed her by the shoulders. He roughly turned her around and pressed her face and the front of her body into the wall. He pressed his manhood into the curve of her ass, his hardness grinding against her. He felt for the collar of her ripped robes and yanked them off her shoulders. He continued to pull them until the robes hung at her knees. Only a small pair of grey panties and the white bra covered her modesty. Harry didn't care. She was panting. He felt her pushing her ass against him. Harry couldn't wait anymore. He needed her, needed to take her. She was his.

Harry yanked the back of her panties down. She pushed herself back against him. The wetness between her legs soaked his boxers. Her hands reached towards him and found the waistband of his boxers. Together, they pulled them down, revealing his manhood. He had never done this before, but he had also never killed a man until that night. He needed no guidance. He gripped himself and felt for her opening with the head of his cock. He thrust in, caring little for her comfort or enjoyment. She was his. She would obey.

Katie cried out in both pain and pleasure. Her muscles tightened, but she did not pull away. After several desperate thrusts by Harry, they began to move in tandem. His hands settled on her waist. The warmth that blossomed within him grew stronger. It spread from his chest to his arms and legs. His toes and fingers curled. His magic sang to him, an aria born from the harmony of their two bodies moving as one. Warm power, so intense and strong that he could barely stand it, built within him. His shoulders and stomach tightened. He closed his eyes and pushed, giving into the ecstasy of release that flooded through him as he orgasmed, his cock still deep inside of the witch.

Harry roared, exulting in the power that he felt as his magic exploded within him. Fire and lightning roared in response. Flames spread over his fingers and arms. Lightning arced through the cramped hallway. Thunder boomed, drowning out the sounds of his roars. He reached for more of the power, exulting in the feeling of invincibility. The very elements responded to his will. They came when he called. He reached for it all at once and brought flame and bolts of hot energy down to him.

Katie screamed as the fire and lightning hit her, but Harry did not hear. Flesh and hair melted, followed by muscle and bone. All the while, the magic that tied her to Harry in that moment of bonded ecstasy kept her alive. Even as her spine crumbled to ash, she screamed. When she finally died, what remained of her was little more than a smoldering husk.

The witch's death pierced through the sensations of Harry's crazed revelry. When she died, her bond to him ended. The power stopped flowing. The pleasure ended. He became acutely aware of the smell of burning flesh. He looked down at the pile of melted bones and organs at his feet.

Harry backed away, his eyes wide, his hands held up in denial. _No_, he thought, his mind reeling. "What had he done? He could still feel the remnants of the power. He could still feel the last vestiges of pleasure. He had enjoyed killing her. He fucked her and killed her, burning her alive with his cock still buried in her, and he enjoyed it. Harry retched, doubling over as vomit spewed from his mouth. His head spun. He held a hand against the wall. _No_,_ this can't be real. It's a trick. It's not me. _But even as he thought the words, he knew it to be a lie. He was a murderer.

And now he had no choice. _I'm a monster_, he thought.

He ran.

* * *

No one stopped Harry Potter as he ran from the special housing unit outside of London. Three Unspeakables and two MI6 agents watched from hardened security cameras as Harry forced himself on Katie and killed her. They said nothing as she died. They said nothing as he ran. The simply watched, as they always did. She was the last sacrifice. The final part of the ritual. She knew her role and knew what would happen. She had no family. No official identity. Just like all the other Unspeakables. She was a tool, and now she had fulfilled her purpose. The Ritual of the Blood was complete.

"He has ascended," one of the MI6 agents said, a thin man with thick glasses and close-cut hair.

The lead Unspeakable, an older man with a slightly crooked back and wavy white hair, shook his head. "Not yet. He has accessed the power. His potential is unlocked. But like the Ancient One warned, he was prepared. He must now fight the demon that the ritual unleashed within him."

"What if he loses?" the agent asked.

The old wizard stayed silent for a long moment before answering. "Then all of Britain will burn. And then the world."

"Jesus," the agent swore. "So, we just unleashed a monster on the world?"

The old man turned to look at the younger man, his eyes sincere and full of something the intelligence operative couldn't quite identify. "No," the man began. "We gave the world its only hope."

**A/N: What do you think? Let me know. Just hit the review button. Even a quick "yes" or "no" would work.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I own nothing.**

**Chapter Three**

"_We didn't think we were superior to everything else. We only assumed that nothing else mattered. Blood purity was not about racism. It was about population control. If the wizarding world stayed small, then it was not a threat. Harry Potter practically eliminated blood purism in a single night. Those that survived the destruction of Little Hangleton were not enough to continue the blood purity crusade. The Others saw this. More importantly, they saw the threat that would follow should the wizarding population multiply. The Veil fell."_

_-Bathsheda Babbling, _The Epic of a Dying Race

A chilly night wind blew through the Scottish Highlands. Moonlight reflected off a rolling fog that wrapped around trees, hills, and the buildings of a small, isolated village. Hogsmeade, a solitary settlement with almost no means of contacting the world outside their restricted existence, sat at the base of a hill. An large, old castle overlooked the village.

In the past, the castle had been the fortress of great kings and queens. The old clans waged war from within its walls and drew blood upon its ramparts. Death sunk deep into the soil, soaking the land around the castle in permanent darkness. Trees, dark and twisted like the soil from which they grew, formed a forest around the castle that was broken only by a large lake that spread into the tall hills of the Scottish Highlands. Overtime, the warriors left, and the kings and queens died. It became a school. A place of learning where children experienced their first steps into a larger world.

Within the old stone walls, Albus Dumbledore took a long drink from an amber bottle on his desk, trying to slow his racing mind. His office's ancient walls had witnessed both tragedy and joy. He was but another benchmark in the long history of Hogwarts. In a century or so, time would forget the reign of Albus Dumbledore. He would be little more than a footnote in the castle's long history, just another portrait on the wall, overshadowed by the terrors and graces of the future.

But for now, he took solace in the quiet of the room. He sighed in relief as the alcohol slid down his throat. A warm shiver spread through his arm and legs, reaching the tips of his fingers and toes, making them curl in brief ecstasy. He smiled – if one could call the slight upturn of his lips a smile. Nothing else about him hinted at happiness. His cheeks sagged. His well-known twinkle no longer gave his eyes a look of humor and mischief. Matted and oily hair clung together in strands, making his beard and normally full locks of white look stringy and grey. In places, old sweat and grime clung to his wrinkled skin. Stains spotted his periwinkle robes.

He knew how he looked. He just didn't care. In his many years of life, he had lost so much. More than most people would even fear. On more occasions than one, tragedy had shattered his world. In the past, the adversity made him stronger. He grew in power and wisdom. He accumulated more knowledge than a room full of the brightest scholars. He knew both lost magical lore and modern astrophysics. He understood the role cellular reproduction played in magic and how dragon's blood could extend life.

But all the knowledge and wisdom, all the years and power, could not have prepared him to lose two students. Two of the children entrusted to him had been torn from his grasp. Yes, accidents had happened before. In the many centuries since the Founders began their school of magic, students had died. A basic understanding of statistics equipped a person with the knowledge to conclude that a student would occasionally die by accident or natural causes.

Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory did not die by accident or natural causes. They were taken from him. They had trusted him to take care of them, to protect them. Undoubtedly, when the Triwizard Cup swept them away, they thought they were being taken to a celebration of their victory. Instead, they met their deaths hundreds of miles from their friends and family, alone and scared.

Only hours after the last task ended, the Ministry managed to track their location. A portkey left behind afterimages, remnants of the energy needed to tear through space and time. A skilled witch or wizard could follow the afterimages. Most were not skilled enough to do so, but despite the Ministry's relative incompetence, it did employ very skilled individuals. Dumbledore, himself, accompanied the team that went after them. By they time they arrived at the Little Hangleton graveyard, some eight hours after Harry and Cedric disappearance, only a crater in the ground marked the boys' deaths.

Of course, Dumbledore knew the graveyard. He had visited it years before to confirm his suspicions about Tom Riddle's parentage. Undoubtedly, Voldemort had intended to use the bones of his father to resurrect himself. Only a handful of dark rituals required the blood of an enemy and bones of a father.

After Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, he rapidly spiraled into a deep depression. Several days passed before Dumbledore even noticed that others were missing. Most were once suspected deatheaters, but a few others were gone as well. Desperately clinging to a hope that Harry and Cedric might be alive and with the missing people, Dumbledore went to great lengths to discover their location. It wasn't until he caught Barty Crouch, Jr. that he began to put the story together. He had noticed over the past several days that Alastor 'Mad-Eye" Moody had been grumpier and more reclusive than normal. Suspicious of almost everyone, Dumbledore investigated. He caught Crouch climbing from the trunk that imprisoned the old auror. Moody had been dead for at least two days, making Crouch's Polyjuice potion less effective. Dumbledore only barely restrained himself from killing the dark wizard. Had it not been for his desire to see the dementors suck the soul from Crouch's body, he would have torn the flesh from the deatheater's corpse.

Crouch revealed what he had managed to gather about Voldemort's resurrection attempt. Something had gone wrong. Something that no one anticipated. In the hours after Harry and Cedric disappeared, Crouch's Dark Mark had faded to little more than a pale outline on his forearm. Severus confirmed the story and reported that the Mafloys – some of the only former deatheaters that did not go missing – refused to say anything regarding Voldemort's resurrection. Dumbledore could only conclude that Voldemort somehow botched the ritual. Undoubtedly, the magical backlash generated from botching the ritual killed Harry, Cedric, Voldemort, and several deatheaters.

Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter did not die as heroes sacrificing their lives so that others may live. They died as victims of a mass murderer while under Dumbledore's protection. The guilt from that alone would send a man in search of relief. However, Dumbledore could not bring himself to regret their deaths. Yes, he felt guilty. He felt guilty because he would trade Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory time and time again if it meant defeating Voldemort and saving Britain, and that terrible truth lit a fire of self-loathing within him that only made his depression worse. He did not deserve his titles or positions. He did not deserve to watch over Hogwarts. Anyone who would trade a child's life had no place running a school.

Dumbledore took another long sip from the whiskey bottle. The amber liquid made him shiver. A few more sips and he just might forget. He stared at the walls. Books and portraits filled every empty space. The portraits looked back at him, not daring to speak. Most looked disappointed, but some looked understanding. A Hogwarts headmaster always wrestled with some sort of tragedy.

Slowly, Dumbledore rose from behind his desk. The alcohol made him wobble just a bit. He stumbled but managed to catch himself before he fell. He straightened his robes and muttered a curse under his breath. Both annoyed and relieved by the alcohol, he grumbled as he shambled around the desk to a large, oak bookcase. The wood was likely as old as the castle. The house elves kept it polished and looking new.

Dumbledore scanned the shelves, jumping quickly from one title to the next until his eyes landed on the book for which he searched. He held out his hand towards the shelf. A thin, leather-bound book slid from its place and floated towards his outstretched hand. Dumbledore wrapped long fingers around it and opened it. He silently read for several long minutes, occasionally flipping a page.

"Here it is," he said aloud. He turned back towards his desk and placed the book on it. He smoothed it open so that it lay flat. He reached into the sleeve of the robe on his left arm and pulled his wand from it. The Elder Wand thrummed in anticipation as it connected to the magic of its master.

Dumbledore took another look at the book, nodded, and walked in front of his desk. He banished the two chairs he kept for guests. He pointed his wand at a small brown sack on his desk. A line of salt shot out of the bag. It zoomed through the air in a long line, leaving a trail behind it. Dumbledore directed it to the space on the floor where the chairs had been. He twisted his wand and drew a circle in the air. The salt mimicked his actions and formed a large circle on the stone floor. When the last piece of salt touched the ground, it sealed a complete circle, free of gaps and flaws. Dumbledore pushed a bit of magic into the salt circle. The salt glowed red, pulsed once, and faded back to salt. The summoning circle was complete. Nothing he summoned would be able to escape.

Dumbledore relaxed his wand arm at his side, but still held tightly to the Elder Wand, ready to use it if necessary. What he was about to do was dangerous. Dangerous and extremely stupid. Yet, he had no choice. He could not go on like this. He had traded and won before. He would have to trade once more. He pushed the hesitancy from his mind and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, preparing himself. Quietly, he spoke:

"_Lady of Air and Darkness,_

_Mistress of the Blackened Night,_

_Queen of the Sidhe._

_Mab, I call thy name._

_Mab, I summon thee._

_Mab, appear to me._

_I invoke thee!_

_I invoke thee!_

_I invoke thee!"_

The air in the office sizzled. Lightning flashed within the summoning circle. A powerful wind stirred within the salt and buffeted the edges of the circle, struggling to be free of the circle's binding. When it could not break free, the wind twisted into a cyclone, taking form as swirling, enraged black clouds. The fury of the magic within the circle raged and struck out, clashing against the circle with enough ferocity to make Dumbledore take a worried step back.

The circle did not break. It glowed an angry red. The cyclone calmed and collapsed, fading into nothingness. As it disappeared, a bright light flashed within the circle, forcing Dumbledore to shield his eyes and look away. When the light faded and Dumbledore dared to look back at the circle, he saw standing at the center of the circle a tall, inhumanely elegant woman. She had pale skin and long black hair tinged with a dark purple one could only see if they looked carefully and quickly. She had blue eyes so deep that Dumbledore could barely look away from them. She wore a dark blue evening gown that could have been made from the water of the deepest ocean. It fit snugly against her curvy, muscular frame. The neckline dipped low between her breasts, revealing the edges of creamy, tantalizing flesh. A slit ran up the side of the dress, showcasing her toned legs from foot to upper thigh. Dumbledore tried to not admire the physical display, but even he could not resist admiring such a vision of flawless beauty. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way she looked expectantly at Dumbledore oozed lust, promising both pleasure and pain. As he had every time before, Dumbledore could not stop himself from gasping.

"You dare call me again, mortal?" the beauty said, her tone flat. Her voice echoed in the office, bouncing off stone walls and reverberating, carry with it a threat.

"Your Majesty," Dumbledore replied quickly, breaking out of his stupor. He kneeled and lowered his head. "I beg your pardon, great queen, but I wish to bargain with Winter."

The sidhe, be they high or low, loved to bargain, and Mab was no different. Of the four faerie courts, Summer bargained with humans more than any other, but the fae all caved to the possibility of gaining power over another, especially mortals. For millennia, since the first wizard learned to conjure fire, the fae had considered wizards and witches particularly entertaining playthings. They could not directly harm humans, but the fae could tempt them. Many mortals had fallen prey to faeries offering power and riches. To prevent it, the magical people of the world had done everything they could to extinguish the wizarding world's knowledge of the fae. Only tidbits of Summer, like leprechauns, managed to slip through. Dumbledore, like many powerful wizards and witches, knew that something more existed, but few people in the wizarding world knew the full extent of the power wielded by the high fae. Mab, Queen of the Unseelie Sidhe, was a faerie of immense power. Within the faerie realm, only her sister, Titania, Queen of the Seelie, and their shared husband, Oberon, matched her power. Outside of the faerie realm, few could hope to defend themselves against her, much less prevail. Only the circle kept her from destroying Dumbledore where he stood. It had been incredibly stupid to summon her, but he needed her.

And he had her. He looked up from the ground.

Mab stared at him, her face completely devoid of emotion, so empty that it could never be human. Yet, Dumbledore still found her beautiful. Intoxicatingly so. His magic hummed within him, calling to the powerful creature that could nurture it, make it stronger. His very body threatened to betray him. For a moment, he felt the urge to trade with her for just a few brief moments of physical intimacy. _No!_ he screamed to himself. He pushed the thought aside as quickly as it had come. Even behind the safety of the circle, Mab still threatened to bewitch him. He hardened his resolve, relying on the whiskey to dull his senses long enough to avoid Mab's seductive power. Without the whiskey, he would have likely caved already.

The sidhe queen smiled, showing her teeth. Dumbledore shuddered and looked away again, unwilling to meet the predator's eyes. Mab's smile deepened as he did so. "What is it that you wish, wizard?" she asked, her voice once again echoing through the room.

Dumbledore steeled himself. He had to pull himself together. He could do this. Mab was powerful, but so was he. He wielded the Elder Wand, a tool created by Death itself. The circle still protected him. He cleared his throat and looked back at her. "I need you to take away my pain and regret over the deaths of two students."

"Ah," Mab said, practically purring with pleasure. "Human emotions are so fragile, so fleeting. Yet, you feel them deeply. They affect your very core. To take something like that from you would not be easy. It could have terrible effects. What could you possibly offer me that would be worth that?"

"My third name," Dumbledore answered quickly.

Mab's eyes flickered. She grinned. "I have three already, wizard. You would risk giving me a fourth?"

A name carried power. Even muggles knew that a name meant something. If a magical being possessed a person's name, their true name, the magical being could almost control that person. At the very least, they could do a lot of damage to the person. Few, however, learned the name of another. A true name meant something to a person. If the magical being could not mimic that feeling, that precise, nuanced emotion that a person put into pronouncing their name, then they could not use the name as a tool. They had to learn the name, and only the bearer of the name could teach them to use it.

Dumbledore took a risk by giving Mab his fourth name. There was one other way in which the dark queen could have gained his fifth name, but Dumbledore was willing to take the chance. The other way was all but impossible. Mab had not been watching him long enough to perform such a feat. "I would give it to you in return for you taking away the pain and regret of my students dying."

Mab tilted her head to once side and looked at him quizzically. "Why?" she asked.

For all of her power, Mab would never understand mortals. The fae tried; yet, they simply did not possess the same motivations or emotions. They sought the knowledge out. They wanted to know how mortals could do what they could do, how they could exist outside the bindings that constricted all but humans. But they never would. Humans were not meant to mix with the sidhe or any of the Others. Their realms did not coincide. Though the fae could look and speak like humans, they were not. They born of a different realm, a different existence. As such, they were bound by different rules. In a very singular way, humans possessed more power than any immortal or godling that wielded Creation.

Freewill. Humans could act as they chose. The ancient rules did not restrict them. They had power in all the realms. Unlike the fae, who would lose some of their power when not in their realm, humans could hop from realm to realm without weakening. They could cause harm without cosmic penalty. They could love without painful restrictions. They could think of others without being tempted to use them. The fae could do none of that. To the fae, freedom was an illusion.

Dumbledore knew, then, that she would grant him his request. "I cannot perform as I need to perform. Soon, the summer months will be over. My students will return. I need to be ready for them. They need a headmaster, not a drunken fool who spends his days sulking in self-loathing. I need to move on."

Mab's smile faded. Once again, she stared at him without emotion, her eyes eerily blank but still intoxicatingly beautiful. After a moment, she spoke. "I agree to your terms, wizard." Light flashed between them. Dumbledore reflexively blinked and turned his head. A weight settled upon him, wrapping around his heart with a very slight pressure. A compact had been formed. If he broke the bargain, he would die.

"Brian," he said, slowly pronouncing the word. He said each syllable with conviction. Each letter carried part of him. Together, they made something of him that was fundamental to his very being. As he said it, he opened his magic and let it flow. It danced through the room, weaving in patterns that went between him and Mab. As it reached the circle, an opening formed, allowing for the compact to be fulfilled.

Mab arched an elegant eyebrow. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian," she said, each word formed with the precision she could have only learned from him.

The air in the room dropped twenty degrees. Dumbledore couldn't stop himself from shivering. A queen of the sidhe, the Lady of Air and Darkness, had his name. Only ten letters kept her from having complete control over him. He knew without a doubt that if Mab gained his final name, she would use it.

"Now, I will perform my part. Release me, wizard," Mab ordered.

This was the most dangerous part. The circle was the only thing that truly kept him safe from Mab. Yes, he was powerful, but Mab was practically a goddess in her own right. For all he knew, she might be beyond simple divinity. He honestly didn't know. Still, he needed this. He had to release her or else the circle would keep her from doing anything to help him.

"Do you swear to do no harm to me, this school, or any within it?" he asked.

Mab sneered and flashed her teeth. "I swear it," she said. Again, the magic in the room stirred, binding her to her promise.

Dumbledore flicked his wand. He had not put it down throughout their interaction. A single grain of salt rolled from the circle.

All at once, the magic keeping Mab bound extinguished. She smiled deeply and stretched her arms out to either side. "Ah," she said. "Now, that is better." She stepped gracefully over the line of salt.

Dumbledore remained kneeling at her feet. He bowed his head again. If she attacked, he had no hope of killing her. He could probably escape if she tried something, but he would be leaving the school defenseless. No one else in the school had the power to take on Mab. No, fighting or showing any sort of defiance would not lead to his goals being accomplished. He had to play nice. Proper respect meant a lot to the fae. He left his head bowed.

"At least you know your place," Mab said, her voice echoing with the same power it had when the circle had bound her. "Stand up," she ordered.

Dumbledore stood. He was a tall man. Most people had to look up to him. Mab did not. When he looked at her, he noticed that she was eyelevel with him. Before he could look away, she had caught him with the gaze of her green, endless eyes. Her hand shot out and grabbed him by the beard before he could look away. Magic brewed in the air, flowing between the two of them, but he could feel neither the brewing magic nor the pain from her pulling his beard. He could only stare in the endless void of her eyes. He saw lives flash by, many upon many mortals all falling in terror in the face of Winter's wrath. He saw darkness. Endless darkness that went on for an unfathomable time. He saw fear. His own fear. He saw the face of Cedric Diggory. He saw the lifeless eyes and look of horror that marred all victims of the killing curse. He saw Harry Potter surrounded by lightning and flame. He saw a white staff made of gnarled wood that was adorned with a glowing green gem. The green of Mab's eyes.

A terrible, blood-curdling scream broke through his link with Mab. One moment, he was staring into her eyes. The next, he was soaring across his office and colliding with one of the many bookcases. Pain shot through his back and head as they struck the hard oak. Wood snapped and several books tumbled to the ground. Dumbledore landed hard on the stone floor, books and knick-knacks raining down upon him. He tried to push himself up, but a sharp pain shot down his neck and into left arm. The arm gave out under his weight. He had injured his neck, maybe even fractured a vertebra. He needed to get help immediately.

Dumbledore did his best to role onto his right side without putting much strain on his neck. Pain lashed through his body, but he pushed it aside, using his occlumency to convince his mind that the pain did not exist. It helped, but it could not make up for the lack of function his injuries may have caused. When he made it onto his right side, he stretched out his right hand, summoning his wand. Nothing happened. He looked up.

Mab, the Lady of Air and Darkness, ruler of the Winter fae, Queen of the Sidhe stalked towards him, her power on full display, the Elder Wand in one hand. The light in the room dimmed. Though the candlelight still burned, no light went further than a few centimeters from the flame. Wherever Mab stepped, ice formed on the floor, ceiling, and walls. When she came near Dumbledore, the ice creeped up his back and chest, covering him in frosty, hard layers. He tried to move, but he was too hurt to resist, especially without a wand. He could use magic without a wand, but it lacked much precision. He might be able to knock Mab down a bit, but he could not heal himself.

Mab stepped up to him. She used the toe of her heeled foot to turn his chin towards her. He ignored the pain, but he couldn't ignore the fear he felt when he looked into the deep, endless eyes of the Winter Lady. "Do you think me a fool?" she asked, her voice just as icy as the rest of her.

Dumbledore tensed and shut his eyes. His head felt like it would split open. The sound of her voice hurt him. The fae infused her words with so much power that her voice cracked through his occlumency barriers. He felt blood trickle from his ears.

"My lady, your oath," Dumbledore croaked through the pain.

Mab flinched as if hit. Dumbledore opened his eyes. Her face was contorted in a mixture of rage and pain. The magic of the oath was already hurting her. She was fighting it in order to hurt him. Dumbledore could not fathom the power that took.

"You tricked me, wizard," she hissed. "You played me like a fool, and that will not be forgotten." The ice tightened around him. Mab flinched against another wave of pain. "I am Mab the Unblessed, the Queen of Air and Darkness. Do you really think you will survive threatening me?" A wave of pain struck her. She doubled over at the waist. She screamed in frustration, causing Dumbledore's ears and head to protest. An intense pain shot through his ears. He cried out, but he did not hear the cry. He couldn't hear anything.

Mab huffed and waved a hand. The ice melted away from Dumbledore, leaving him a shivering, wet mess. She lifted a finger and a warmth spread over him, a power quite unlike Winter. Bones and vertebrae popped back into place. The pain faded. His hearing returned. The spots on his robes disappeared. His hair and beard cleaned itself and looked freshly washed. The odor that even he tried to ignore was replaced by the scent of freshly showered skin and laundered clothes.

Mab sighed in relief. She had healed him and even made him better than before. Apparently, that was enough for the magic to stop attacking her for trying to void the compact. Still, though, the stare she fixed him with was more than adequate enough to scare him. "The Blood has risen. A True Wizard has been born. And you, the mighty Albus Dumbledore, thought you could hide it from me." Her face darkened. "Should the Staff Eternal return to the wizarding world, I will wipe you pathetic creatures from the face of existence."

With that, she threw the Elder Wand at Dumbledore and spun on a heel. She blinked away, leaving behind only a few snowflakes that slowly fell to the stone floor. Dumbledore simply stared at where she had been, terrified, confused, and completely without guilt. What had he wanted to forget? For that matter, who had he wanted to forget?

**A/N: Please review. Even if it is a simple yes or no. I respond to every review (eventually), and I answer every question.**


End file.
